


Indivisible

by obsidiangrey



Series: States 'Verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historically Accurate, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Updates, america is a proud father, and a slightly overprotective father, other nations make cameos, the states are loud and argumentative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsidiangrey/pseuds/obsidiangrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing with the United States of America is that they aren't always united.</p><p>A series of snapshots (mostly in chronological order) of the history of the United States and their dynamics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Virginia, 1670_

The Land was scared.

The Land was  _strong_ \- incredibly strong, it was a requirement for survival in the harsh winters and unyielding land upon which the settlers lived and it always had been and always would continue to be. The land embodied the settlers, proud and strong with a will and spirit that simply refused to bend to any power but for that power which had brought them across the sea in the first place.

But it was night, and there was a storm closing in with blowing wind and the promise of heavy rain. The Land was cold and alone, and the people cried "Witch!" whenever the Land passed within earshot. Access to shelter in any of the nearby towns was not an option. There was no house to turn to, no warm bed, no fire, no food.

"Hello, there."

The Land spun around, bare feet scuffing against the ground, arms flailing to prevent a fall from the rapid movement. The boy nearby was young, twelve or so, wearing nice clothes. His eyes were blue like the sky, hair blond and pulled back with a dark ribbon that snapped about in the wind, and he was holding horse by the reins. One of his hands was stretched out slightly, and the Land recoiled before he could draw near.

"Wait- don't be afraid!" he said quickly. "There's no reason to be scared. I'm like you. It's okay, I want to help you." 

The Land hesitated. The boy did not step back, but lowered his hand.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

The Land stuck out her chin defiantly, drawing herself up as best she could, and there was that same pride and spirit of her people shining through her tiny form. The rags draped over her thin figure might have been the robes of a queen. "Virginia."

The boy smiled. Slowly, he held out his hand again, and the Land did not flinch away. She studied it for a moment, the tanned skin and callouses on his fingers. After another moment, she reached out and took it; her hand was brown from dirt, but his was clean and warm and gentle and engulfed her much smaller hand. "My name is America," he said brightly. "I have food back at my house. Would you like some? I have a place for you to sleep, too."

He sounded kind. He was smiling at her. The Land felt drawn to him for some unknown reason, and nodded, and his smile grew wider. He helped her up into the saddle of the horse then climbed up behind her, and they rode off quickly to escape the storm. Neither of them spoke until they were inside the stables, and the Land toed at some straw on the floor with a bare foot while America removed the horse's tack.

"Are there others like us?" she asked, thinking of what her people had said: colonies to the north and a few to the south.

America paused. "Yes," he finally said. "There are. There are nations, and then there are colonies, like you and me."

"Will I meet any of them?"

Her people scorned her, feared her. Witch-child, beggar, thief. But if she met a nation, it would be an audience none of them could ever dream to have...!

"We'll see." America had a curious expression on his face, and picked her up to carry her inside. They left the stable and started down a path toward the house. "Come, now, let's see what we can do about food."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like history, and I like Hetalia, and I like writing, so I figure I might as well combine all three and have some fun with this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America muses on the colonies.

They weren't just kids, they were  _his_ kids. It was a realization which America had come to one day, though he couldn't pinpoint  _when_ exactly; somewhere, his mind had transitioned from the idea that these colonies, like himself, were the colonies of Britain to the idea that these colonies were  _his_.

He had only met the rest of the British Isles once, and it was when England had taken him on a boat to London in the early 1600s. It was, to date, the longest amount of time America had ever been off his home soil, and he had fallen ill about three-quarters into the trans-oceanic journey. Nothing anyone did helped, not even England - he suffered miserably through the whole visit, which lasted approximately two months, and only started to feel better when he had Virginian soil back underneath his feet. They meant very little to him, the British Isles, though they were certainly nice enough.  _England_ was the one he cared about - England, his mentor, guardian,  _brother_.

But England visited less and less, and his letters were few and far between. He did have an empire to run, America supposed, but he'd still wanted to prove something to the other Nation when he stumbled across Virginia- he had felt a  _presence_ on the land, something different from the colonists and similar to another Nation but not  _quite_ , and he'd thought that maybe... well. He'd wanted to prove something to England, and decided he could surprise the other Nation when he came back to visit:  _look, Arthur, look at how much I've grown! See what I've done?_

England hadn't come back. And somewhere, sometime, the unconscious decision of keeping the colonies  _away_ from England had been made. There were justifications, of course; England was busy, America was busy, America didn't want to explain why he'd waited so long to say anything. All flimsy reasoning at best.

The states were his children (though they didn't consider themselves brother and sister to one another- they argued too much for that; perhaps distant cousins would be a more accurate term, or even a simple  _family_ ), and in raising them, America realized he would do whatever he had to do if it meant that they would be safe. _  
_

* * *

Of course, they couldn't stay in the same house together for very long. America figured  _that_ out when he'd found the personification of Georgia about to be put up for auction, brought her back to the house, and watched as she was promptly ignored by the Deep South.

He built houses. It was slow going, but it wasn't like they were going to run out of time. Virginia stayed in the house which England had left behind for America until the first house was finished, a large home on several sprawling acres of land in Richmond, at which point she moved out. North and South Carolina followed suit, and they spent most of their time staying with their elder sister as opposed to staying on their own land.

New England drifted. None of them liked being so far down the coast from their borders, and many of them found the weather to be unsuitably warm. New Hampshire spoke slowly and struggled to grasp concepts which came with ease to the rest of the family; he preferred to travel about and find work, never staying in one place for too long. Massachusetts had a fierce temper that could rival Virginia's and never backed down from an argument (and he argued a lot). Rhode Island was like a faulty cannon, quick to go off and never quite doing what anyone wanted or expected him to do -  _Rogue's Island_ , America thought to himself on more than one occasion. Connecticut deserved a reward for dealing with them all. And, on the whole, the Middle Colonies kept to themselves - much unlike New England, all of whom tended to be the loudest and most obtrusive.

So it was the 1700s, and America had thirteen children whom he adored, and he hadn't seen England in what was probably decades.

...Yeah, everything was fine.

* * *

England sailed over in 1775, when a molten hot rebellion finally came pouring out of the great melting pot that was America.

"Ungrateful  _brat_ ," he snapped, having strode into  _America's_ house like he hadn't been gone for the last several decades, still thinking he owned the place. "Haven't you any idea of the trouble this is causing?"

America cringed.

Was he upset at England? Yes, most definitely. The Nation had gone away, leaving behind a very young America and a broken promise to return. But England had  _raised_ him, cared for him- England was father, brother,  _family_.

"I'm sorry," he tried. "But I can't control the people."

England made a snarling noise in the back of his throat, and America found himself fighting the urge to retreat.

What were his people  _doing_? Why invoke the ire of the British Empire?

* * *

The taxes.

The Boston Massacre (he had traveled north to visit, had found Massachusetts glaring at the ceiling with bandages wrapped around his chest).

The Boston Tea Party (why was it always Boston?)

The shootings at Concord and Lexington and the subsequent running battle back to Boston (why  _Massachusetts_?)

America sighed, looking out the window. It was springtime in Virginia - all the trees were bright, a lively green, and there was birdsong in the air, and there was a breeze blowing by, and the flowers were in bloom. Virginian soil under his feet, everything was peaceful. Peaceful to look at, at the very least.

He turned away from the window in disgust and started to pace the length of the room.

There was a letter on his desk (England's desk, technically; England owned this  _house_ and America was probably going to leave before his mentor could find him and they could say things they would regret later), signed  _Patrick Jones_. Massachusetts had discarded the first half of his hyphenated name, tossing away  _Kirkland_ and all things attached to it. The letter was brief- a plea, a call to arms, a rally for militia troops to come and gather at the siege.

America was going to Philadelphia, where the Continental Congress had recently convened. Last he'd heard, having gotten in touch with some people he knew, there was an Olive Branch Petition- a possible reconciliation. Part of him supported it, and he could feel the people desperate to retie the bonds with their parent country. Part of him was longing to be free, phantom chains around his ankles dragging him down, a voice inside screaming for British blood.

America was going to Philadelphia, but he had a letter to write first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't clear, the state personification of Georgia is black. Considering what the South (and most of the rest of America, to be perfectly honest with you) was like at the time, this results in tension with her siblings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Revolution.

 

>   _April 30, 1775_
> 
> _To my dearest brothers and sisters:_
> 
> _I am bedridden, and have been since the first shots were fired, though I find I have been moving about more often as of late, a turn of events which I am most grateful for. I trust you know of the happenings concerning Concord and Lexington, the result of which has been the fervor of revolution embracing our colonies in its grasp, and I trust you also know of the siege about Boston, which has left me currently in the state I now find myself - these are the reasons I write to you all to-night, and I hope you write back with a similar urgency._
> 
> _I require your assistance._

* * *

It was a rather odd duo who rode on horseback through the countryside of New Jersey. They were hardly more than children, a boy and a girl, their faces smudged with dirt and sweat and browned by the light of the sun. Their horses carried a great deal of supplies, so their pace was slow, but neither seemed to mind, content to walk in silence for a while.

"D'you suppose anyone's gonna listen?" the boy finally asked, and the girl snorted.

"I'd be there in a heartbeat if I weren't a girl and I weren't a kid, Jacob" she replied dryly. "But I  _am_ a girl, and I  _am_ a kid, so I can't. Pa 'ssentially ordered  _you_ into Philadelphia. 's far's I know, Rogue got the same orders. If all of New England isn't ans'ring a call t'arms for Massachusetts, there's no way in hell that anyone else is gonna." A pause. "'specially the South."

"What about Pa, Constance?"

"He still s'ports the Olive Branch. Enough said."

* * *

Early May. Virginia wished to be in the South again; her  _home_ , a home that did not need to be disturbed by all these whispers of  _revolution_ against their parent country.

Not that England knew about them, or that her representatives in the Congress disagreed with independence (they were actually in support of it), but that was aside the point.

She missed her large house, the warm air, the fruit trees, the fine life of luxury that she and her southern sisters had established for themselves. Yet, Pa had asked them to come to Philadelphia, and so in Philadelphia they were staying, living, for the time being, in a house with her southern sisters, a few of the northern colonies, and their father himself. Part of New England was supposed to be arriving soon, bringing their numbers to eleven.

"You shouldn't sit like that," South Carolina admonished. "It's unfitting for someone of your status."

The eldest colony, sprawled in a chair with her feet propped up on the railing of the small balcony, merely rolled her eyes. Borne of harsh winters and the constant, desperate struggle for survival, now populated by those rich folk of high taste and high society, Virginia spent hours in the morning braiding her hair, which had grown far past her waist, and dressed in the clothes of a gentleman. She knew the value of hard work, but now that there was no longer a requirement for it, she saw fit to avoid it at all costs. She was a walking contradiction, conservative ideals coupled with bits of forward thinking that made many shake their heads. "I sit how I like. Besides, it's comfortable. Did you pay someone to send our letter?"

South Carolina wrinkled her nose and made a rather disgusted face. "Yes. Can you believe the nerve of him? He expects us to travel to Boston in the summertime to deal with his problems."

"We ought to be flattered," North Carolina added, never far behind her twin. "He thinks we know how to shoot."

"I  _do_ know how to shoot," Virginia replied, and then frowned. "These problems belong in Boston, and there they shall stay until remedied."

The South had little desire to get caught up in the rabble-rousing activities of their northern brethren, and the South spoke as one.

* * *

Plymouth was a quiet town, all things considered. The people were polite, kind in a reserved sort of manner, and strict in their thoughts on religion. A breeze blew in off the ocean and cooled down the heated summer days. There was a marketplace and a bustling trade industry and small houses built wherever room could be found, all so very unlike the sprawling plantations found to the south. One such house resided on the far edge of town, close to the harbor with a view of the docks- the inhabitants of the town of Plymouth, all of whom would swear an oath that they did not participate in such activities as gossip, theorized through scant information that the house was owned by two young brothers who both inherited all the property after the premature death of their father. They were good boys, cheerful folk who attended church every Sunday, although one of them was prone to sickness.

Plymouth watched the house and its inhabitants, and wondered.

* * *

"You got the letter!"

They couldn't take Massachusetts into Boston for obvious reasons, but Plymouth was where his roots were, and therefore Plymouth was the next best place for him to be. New York, for all his sarcasm and the bickering which transpired between the two colonies, cared for Massachusetts deeply and had gone with him; Georgia, estranged from her southern sisters, had been welcomed along. They managed well enough, though no one would pay a black girl for her work and Massachusetts was unable to work most of the time. New York was out constantly, doing odd jobs around town to make do, and Pa sent in what he could when he could.

Still, the siege at Boston continued, dragging out through the days and the weeks, and Massachusetts rarely left his chair by the window.

"I did," Rhode Island said with a lopsided grin and a nod, propping his musket rifle up against the wall and following New York into the house. "Hey, didja know that m'rifle's bigger than me?"

New York ruffled his brother's hair, eliciting a flurry of handswatting and a curse. "Yes, you are terribly short. Sure they'll let you sign up?"

The smallest colony let out a loud scoff. "I'm a Rhode Islander! Rogue's Island! Hell, I  _am_ Rhode Island, though nobody don't know it. I'll get in, just you see. 'Sides, what kind of brother I'd be if I didn't help y'out when y'need it?"

They entered into the sitting room in time for the other two residents of the house to catch the end of their conversation, and the Colony of Massachusetts rolled his eyes.

"You'd be New York," he deadpanned from his chair. Georgia tutted at him reprovingly. "Or the rest of the colonies. I've been trying to convince that one to sign up so he'll leave me some peace and quiet, but he won't listen."

" _Our_ brother is bein' very kind in stayin' here," Georgia admonished, thick southern accent feeling both alien and strangely comforting in its familiarity at the same time. "And consid'rin' some of those reactions you got, I'd say you should be more nice, mm? Takin' an awful big risk, Robert."

Her words prompted a collective wince and a grimace.

Massachusetts had copied out thirteen versions of the same letter and sent them out; jokingly, he had handed two of them to New York and Georgia after he was done, the two having been seated on the couch opposite.

The first replies had come from New England: New Hampshire was traveling with Connecticut to join their father in Philadelphia at the Continental Congress. They both apologized profusely for not being able to do more but wrote of the militias being sent from their colonies and wished him luck. Rhode Island had originally written something similar. The Middle Colonies, all girls save for New York and New Jersey, had responded in the negative. New York refused to leave Massachusetts; New Jersey was in the same boat as New Hampshire; the others were girls and did not know how to fire a gun, nor did they want to risk getting caught. The only difference between their letters and New England's letters was that the Middle Colonies' carried a hint of warning: Massachusetts was harshly admonished for his rebelliousness, and they made it clear that Pa didn't seem very happy.

The South hadn't deigned to send individual replies. There was a single letter written in Virginia's hand, very short, blunt, and to the point, curtly informing him that they had  _all_ been asked to join their family in Philadelphia and hoped to see their brothers there. No mention whatsoever had been made of Georgia.

Their father had not said anything at all.

"He still kinda s'pported the Olive Branch Petition," Rhode Island explained, cramming another mouthful of bread into his mouth before speaking again. The four were gathered in the sitting room for their meal, Massachusetts not having the strength to get to the dining room and refusing to let New York carry him there. "Doesn't want to fight much, but he wants t' protect 'is people, y'know? An' protect  _us_ , s'why the old Redcoat don't know about us. Got lots o' people disagree'n 'bout everything 'n all. Hasn't seen how Pat's here's doin', either, or he'd prob'ly change his mind. Heard those boys up at Boston need all the help they can get."

"Did you tell Pa you were going?" Georgia asked.

"Yes, what did he have to say about it?" New York prompted curiously.

Rhode Island's lopsided grin became slightly fixed. "Be happy you ain't in Philadelphia. Pa's stressed and they don't stop  _arguing_ , dear Lord. I left one night while they was all screamin'. Couldn't bear it no longer."

"Come up with a more noble story later." Massachusetts looked at his brother over the rim of his mug, eyes bright. There were a lot of things which could be said about the colony, and not all of them were nice, but that he was lacking in spirit was decidedly not one of them. "This sounds like you were bored, and having nothing better to do, decided, 'oh, I guess I'll fight the British, that sounds fun'."

"Who's to say that  _wasn't_ my reason?" Rhode Island grinned back at him. "Naw, don't you worry, now. It'll be the best damn story you ever heard!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Revolutionary America is actually really interesting (at least to me), but I couldn't think of much substantial to put in a chapter about it, so here we are. 
> 
> Jacob --> New Hampshire  
> Constance --> Connecticut  
> Rogue/Robert --> Rhode Island (historically referred to as "Rogue's Island" on numerous occasions)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhode Island during the American Revolution: feat. His Excellency George Washington.

General Washington studied the young soldier in front of him. The soldier- the  _boy_ , why was he fighting this war with an army comprised of old men and undisciplined  _children_ \- the boy looked back at him, shifting around in the way that children did, incapable of standing still, but otherwise remarkably calm for someone who had been called in to speak with the commander of the Continental Army.

"Why are you  _here_?" he finally asked.

The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed, relaxed. He was a tiny thing, even more so in comparison to Washington's own impressive stature, and though he claimed to be thirteen, he most certainly had to be younger. He had a cheerful smile and wispy blond hair and bright blue eyes, and he had never given much of a proper name beyond "Jones." His bayonet rifle was resting diagonally across his back, the weapon close to five feet in length while the boy himself couldn't have been more than four-eight. His uniform was too large and hung off his small frame with the result of him looking like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. He walked with a limp, the result of a gunshot wound- though no one knew how he had gotten into a skirmish to begin with.

"My family argues, Mr. General, sir," he said with a shrug, his words spoken with a drawl that screamed of New England. He probably wasn't even trying to be disrespectful- how had he not been written up for insubordination?

...The Continental Army was a terrible mess, though.

"And my brother got hurt 'cause of Lexington and Concord, and he couldn't fight at Boston, so I went instead of him," Jones continued. "Wanted to help."

"Then you do not get along with your family?"

"No, I love 'em, Mr. General, sir. They disagree an awful lot, they do- gets awful loud, sir, with all the arguing."

"And your mother?"

Jones paused for a moment, blinked once. "Never had a mother, sir."

"My condolences, soldier."

"Thank you, sir." Jones paused again, blinked again, then peered up. "Don't mean to be rude, Mr. General, sir, but why'd you call me in here?"

Washington remembered a soldier back from his time fighting in the French and Indian War, a boy not much younger than him who went by the name of Alfred Jones- bright blue eyes and a smile that reminded Washington of everything he had considered home- blue Virginian skies and the sprawling grounds of Mt. Vernon and the smell of the earth after a rainstorm- and then he had met the boy again, except Alfred Jones had not aged a day in the fifteen years between the two encounters.

Washington considered himself to be a reasonably intelligent man- Congress did too, evidently, as they had appointed him commander of the Continentals- and Washington had a suspicion about this young Jones in front of him. If his suspicion was correct, he was certain that his Nation would never forgive him if the boy got himself shot and killed. If he was wrong, well- he didn't want children fighting in his army, and he had no desire to let this boy get anywhere near the British Regulars. If he knew for a fact that the boy had a home and family to go back to, if he had proof the boy wasn't lying about what he'd said, he would have discharged him weeks ago.

"Jones, I have a job for you."

The boys eyes went wider than dinner plates. " _Me_ , sir- I'm just a kid, Mr. General, sir- what to you want  _me_ to do, sir?" _  
_

"I have been sending regular dispatches to the Second Continental Congress, currently working out of the Pennsylvania State House in Philadelphia," Washington explained, and Jones straightened into some vague approximation of military posture. "I find myself in need of a courier to continue delivering these updates, along with requests for aid to be sent when necessary..."

Somewhere outside the tent, Washington could hear the sounds of a brawl starting, and though he did not outwardly change expression, some part inside of him shriveled in despair. Such a  _terrible mess_...

"...however often that may be. Might you be able to assist me in this matter?"

"You're really trusting me to do that, sir?"

" _Yes_ , Jones, I am."

"Oh- Mr. General, sir, I won't disappoint!" The military posture fled with a bright and cheerful grin. "Just give the word, Mr. General, and I'll bring it straight to 'em, sir!"

"Very good, Jones, very good..."

No, his Nation definitely wouldn't forgive him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the American Revolution; period-typical racism.

The stone steps leading to the outhouse from the back of their home in Philadelphia were probably not very clean, and her clothes would need to be washed, and though there was no snow on the ground yet, the air was bitterly chilled. The cold from the stone seeped through her skirts and numbed her legs. Still, she found it preferable to any of the other options available to her- preferable to sitting in the house trying to find common ground with her brothers, preferable to sitting with the Georgian delegates when Pa went to visit the Congress, preferable to sitting in the shared room with her sisters while North and South Carolina either ignored her or talked about her like she wasn't there. She was a colony just as the rest of them- the _people_ within her borders were people black _and_ white, she could _feel_ it- couldn't they? Charleston was the cradle from which the South had raised and nurtured that demonic institution- didn't they _know_?

“What on Earth are you doing out here? Do you _want_ to freeze?”

Light, and a pair of buckled shoes and stockings, and an exasperated huff as Virginia sat down next to her. George couldn't understand how her sister could have such forward thinking- _trousers_ , really- and still treat her as inferior. The huff was followed by an exaggerated shudder.

“Philadelphia has no right to be so hot in the summertime and so _cold_ in the winter.”

“Mm, well, s'quiet tout 'ere. Don't mind the cold so much, then.”

“It _smells_ ,” Virginia persisted. “And it's much warmer inside.”

Georgia's ire flared up before she could quash it down again. “And why'd _you_ care?”

She wasn't expecting the long pause, and she wasn't expecting the defeated tone her sister's voice took on when she finally did speak- Virginia, ever-proud and unyielding Virginia, defeated?

“Do you feel them? Of course you do- you must, surely.”

“The slaves?” Georgia looked over to see Virginia flinch. “Call it what it is, Lizbeth. The people that's been enslaved- _our_ people that's been enslaved, also by _our_ people. I feel 'em, Lizbeth, yes.”

Virginia looked pained. Her lips pressed together in a thin line; her brow furrowed; she looked away from Georgia, studying her hands intently.

“I think-” she started, then stopped. “I... Carol and Caroline do. I don't like talking about it with them, but I've tried.”

Georgia stared at her. Virginia refused to look up and meet her gaze. Were her words supposed to- what was the _point_? If she was trying to assuage any hurt feelings, as if only that were the problem, she was failing. What did those words mean beyond at least three of her thirteen family members _knowing_ they were wrong in their actions and continuing to do so anyway? That simply _hurt_.

Her sister's actions were distressingly out of the ordinary. Georgia thought about the flat fields of the south and the sprawling plantations- the crops watered with blood from a slaver's whip- the clamor of the auction block, bodies packed in too tightly and ropes around her wrists-

Virginia hated change. She had crawled up from the mud to reach where she was now in terms of status, and anything that could remove her from that position was seen as a threat in her eyes. _Change_ was a threat. Opposing slavery, _removing_ it, would remove the linchpin of southern economy and wealth and destabilize everything- change was a threat. Georgia knew how her sisters thought.

“What I'm- I-”

Had Virginia ever been at such a loss for words? Georgia couldn't remember another time like this. Then again, this was probably the longest conversation she'd ever had with her.

“I can't- excuse what my people are doing.” Virginia looked up, finally, but she still didn't meet Georgia's eyes. She looked out into the darkness of the night, vaguely in the direction of the outhouse. She sounded calmer, but she tripped and stumbled over her words as though she was speaking a language entirely unfamiliar to her. “But I let their thoughts and actions mess with my head and skew my judgment, and- I can't excuse that either, but I'm- sorry, Belle. For the things I've said. And done. I'm sorry.”

Georgia said nothing. Her mind had gone as numb as her fingers and toes.

She didn't doubt that Virginia was sincere- at least, Virginia believed she was being sincere. But it was _easy_ for her sisters to excuse themselves for their actions, to place the blame on others. Letting the thoughts of their people bleed through into their minds, accepting slavery as it was even if they happened to disagree with it, that made them no different than any other white person in the south. But for Georgia- every time she felt that dull resignation of _this is my place_ and every pro-slavery argument she found herself thinking about and-

She _was_ a person. She was a colony, same as all the rest of them. What made them better? What was so different between her and them that put them above her?

“Well, one've you's come to her senses,” she sighed, looking away, and heard Virginia's glare in her sharp intake of breath. “No, _no_. Don't you start, now. Lizbeth, s'been more'n _fifty years_. Don't think I've forgotten the first things you said- _all_ said.”

There was another long pause, more strained than the first. Virginia's voice, when she spoke, was tight with controlled anger.

“I'm _trying_ to apologize.”

“And I understand that!” Georgia snapped back. “But I can't _forget_ \- that one apology don't erase everything.”

The wind blew. A few loose strands that had slipped out of Virginia's braid whipped around her face. Georgia's toes curled in her shoes, and she pressed her elbows into her sides, repressing a shiver. It was cold outside, but she wasn't going back in.

She heard the scrape of buckled shoes on stone, heard the fading footsteps, heard the back door to the house shut. It was quiet outside.

Georgia looked up to the night sky and sighed.

The family had gathered in Philadelphia, all of the colonies and their father- sans Rhode Island. He had actually responded to Massachusetts' call and joined up with the militia gathering around Boston, ready to fight for the freedom of their country against the British. Her hands clenched into fists; the fabric of her skirts wrinkled underneath her fingers.  _Freedom_.

British or- or-  _American_ , is that would they would become? It didn't matter to her. They both thought the same way. These colonies would never be truly free until all who lived within their borders were free, and there were few in power who would back that cause.


End file.
